The Dead Dog Day

by Jackie Kabler

  ‘Just a note to say I love your hair. I was wondering, if I may, whether when you go to the hairdressers you ever keep any of the old, cut hair? I am building up a small collection of organic matter from television personalities and would love to add some of your hair to it …’

  Did they ever stop? Slumped on her sofa, exhausted and surrounded by carrier bags, Cora was astounded as she read the latest email that had pinged on to her BlackBerry.

  ‘I mean, someone who collects organic matter from TV presenters? What sort of nut job does that?’ she thought. It wasn’t unusual for presenters to receive ‘organic matter’ from viewers – and the less said about that the better – but she’d never heard of it happening in reverse. She dreaded to think what else he – and it was always a ‘he’ – had in his collection.

  She sighed. It was already nearly dark outside, and through the window she could see Christmas tree lights twinkling and flashing in the apartments opposite. She looked at her watch and heaved herself up again to fetch the champagne she’d put in the fridge before her shopping trip. It was something her mum and dad had always done, a Christmas Eve tradition that she’d planned to share with Justin this year – wrapping presents while sipping champagne and watching a good old festive movie. Now, she was determined to carry on the tradition by herself, and The Sound of Music was about to start. She flicked the TV on just in time to catch the opening scene, and as the familiar music swelled and the helicopter camera zoomed in to Julie Andrews twirling on the mountain top, Cora sipped the cold bubbles and felt almost happy for the first time in days.

  Setting her glass down on the coffee table, she spread out her wrapping paper, bows, tags and sticky tape and dipped into the nearest carrier. A leather D&G hobo bag, black of course, for Nicole. Cora stroked it. Gorgeous. She tipped out the rest of the bags. A skinny black scarf with a hint of metallic shimmer, also for Nicole. For Rosie, a soft, baby blue cashmere cardigan, delicately beaded, plus some expensive and delicious-smelling body lotion for her bump. Nicole’s husband, Will, who taught science at a local secondary school and was always missing his favourite TV programmes because he had so much marking to do, was getting a box set of the latest cult sci-fi series, and she’d found a book on contemporary American furniture for Rosie’s hubby Alistair, a furniture designer who was always on the look-out for new ideas.

  She put the presents aside for wrapping and delved into another bag. Yum. Goodies to take to Rosie’s, where she and Nicole and her family were all spending Christmas – bought, rather than made, naturally. Cora really couldn’t cook, and after the time she’d suggested she bring a plate of toast to an ‘everyone bring a dish’ dinner party, arguing that everyone likes toast, she’d been banned from ever ‘cooking’ for her friends again. Hence her purchase of a three-pound pungent Brie, some divine-looking handmade chocolates, an apple and gingerbread loaf, some raspberry and cappuccino cupcakes from Mattino’s, and of course a case of champagne, already chilling in the fridge. Gathering the food, she staggered into the kitchen, popped the Brie in the fridge, and plonked the rest on the worktop, ready to take in the morning.

  As she sank down onto the sofa again, her Twitter direct message alert beeped. She clicked on to the page and her stomach turned over. The message was from her mystery tweeter, @a-friend.

  @a-friend @CoraBaxterMLive Cora, it’s me, Justin. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I screwed up big time.

  What? This @a-friend character was Justin? Was it really? And what did he mean, he’d screwed up? Her hands shaking, Cora stared at the screen. Then she frantically typed a reply, fingers slipping on the tiny keys in her haste.

  @CoraBaxterMLive @a-friend What do you mean? What did you do? Where are you? Why were you at TV Centre? You were on CCTV! Call me!

  Breathing heavily, she waited. Seconds later, the reply flashed up.

  @a-friend @CoraBaxterMLive I’m sorry. Needed to get away. I’ll be in touch soon, I promise.

  What the hell? What was going on? And why on earth wasn’t he just calling her or emailing her? She paused, then started typing again.

  @CoraBaxterMLive @a-friend Justin – why all the secrecy? And the police are looking for you. You have to come back.

  She waited. Then:

  @a-friend @CoraBaxterMLive I know. But I didn’t do anything. Please trust me. I’ll talk to them soon. I’m SO sorry. Bye for now.

  Frustrated and angry now, Cora banged out another message.

  @CoraBaxterMLive @a-friend Justin – I NEED to talk to you. Call me, call your family, anybody. Please.

  Ten minutes later, there was still no reply. If @a-friend was really Justin, he’d logged out. Confused and annoyed, Cora pushed her phone out of sight and tried to make sense of what had just happened. At least she knew he was alive and, presumably, well. But why had he gone away? Where was he? Did she believe him when he said he hadn’t done anything? Honestly – yes. But it still didn’t explain why he hadn’t come forward to the police, when he was obviously aware of the CCTV footage. But what could she do? She wasn’t prepared to tell the police about this, not until she’d had a chance to talk to him properly. It might be a decision she’d live to regret, but it was the only one she felt she could make, for now at least. She sighed heavily and grabbed her champagne.

  ‘Right. It’s Christmas. Forget Justin, forget weird murders. I am not dwelling on this now.’

  She drained her glass, refilled it, turned the TV up, and started wrapping.

  13

  Monday 25th December

  Christmas Day, 9 a.m. Trying not to think about what her Christmas morning should have been like, Cora grabbed a suitcase and started packing up the presents piled in the corner of her bedroom. She added clothes, toiletries, and her hair straighteners and then sat back on her heels, looking fondly at the little pile of gifts on the bed. Nathan had arrived on her doorstep last night with a bag from himself, Rodney and Scott – and the boys had excelled themselves. Cora stretched over and picked up the beautiful Calvin Klein boots, black and white snakeskin with kitten heels, that they’d clubbed together for. She kicked off her shoes and tried them on again. Perfect. As well as the boots, the boys had each given her a useful little stocking filler – from Nathan, a big flask for those early morning in-car cuppas, a gift nicely complemented by Scott’s, a box of weird and wonderful teas from around the world. Rodney, who had a torch fetish and a huge collection of them stacked neatly in the boot of his car, had presented her with a bright pink Maglite, which would be useful when they were in the middle of nowhere on dark winter mornings. She knew they were being extra sweet to her this year, and she was touched.

  Fortunately, the boys had all rung her first thing this morning, equally thrilled with what she’d chosen for them. Nathan had been ecstatic about the prospect of two new chickens for his garden, and said he’d be spending Boxing Day fixing up his old coop in preparation for their arrival, while Scott had been so impressed with the old compass that for a moment Cora thought he might actually be a little tearful. Rodney, meanwhile, had vowed to wear the golf trousers for all of his Christmas celebrations, giving Cora a sudden pang of guilt when she thought of his long-suffering girlfriend Jodie. Overall, though, a most satisfactory gift exchange. Cora stuffed the snakeskin boots into the top of her case, zipped it up, and headed for the kitchen to pack up the food.

  By the time she lifted the brass knocker on Rosie’s battered, blue front door she was actually feeling quite perky for the first time in days, and determined not to let last night’s Twitter encounter with Justin ruin her day. She’d already decided not to tell her friends he’d been in touch. She’d worry about the whole sorry mess after Christmas, she vowed.

  ‘CORA’S HERE!’

  Cora laughed as she heard her friend’s shriek. Moments later, Rosie wrenched the door open, Nicole thundering down the hall behind her, closely followed by Ava, Alexander, and Elliot. At the same time Alistair appeared at the top of the stairs, a broad smile on his handsome face, and Will pop
ped his head out of the sitting room door, clutching a book and grinning.

  ‘Gosh, what a welcome!’ Cora giggled.

  ‘Come in, come in! It’s CHRISTMAS!’ Rosie pulled her into the hall and slammed the door.

  ‘OK, OK! Hello, all of you. Now, is it too early for a Christmas drink? I have champagne, naturally.’ Cora thrust her food bags at Nicole, kissed her and Rosie, and then climbed a few stairs to greet Alistair, who even on Christmas day looked as if he’d just come out of his workshop. She pecked him on the cheek, trying to avoid his dusty old navy jumper, but he pulled her into a hug and laughed.

  ‘It’s only sawdust – you’re not getting out of giving me a hug that easily, Miss Glamour Puss!’

  Cora gave in and hugged him back.

  ‘Oh alright, you messy pup. Now go and get cleaned up – what are you doing working on Christmas Day, anyway?’

  She slapped him on his big bottom, and he tittered like a schoolboy and raced back upstairs. Cora wiped sawdust off her black jacket and turned back to the hall. Will, tall, gangly and studious-looking as always with his little, black-framed glasses and floppy, brown hair, emerged fully from the sitting room and enveloped her in a bear hug.

  ‘Glad you’re here, babe. It’s going to be great, all of us together for Christmas.’

  ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it? Thanks Will. And where are my favourite babies then?’

  Ava, Alexander, and Elliot were still standing there, staring at her, and she crouched down so they could inspect her properly.

  Elliot reached up a chubby hand and touched her hair.

  ‘Christmas. Santa came,’ he said, beaming.

  ‘Ooh, lucky boy! Did you get nice presents?’

  Elliot considered for a moment, then nodded solemnly. ‘Very nice presents.’

  ‘Very nice presents,’ echoed Alexander.

  Cora wrapped an arm around each two-year-old and pulled them close. ‘I’m very pleased for you both, my darlings. You must have been very good boys.’

  Ava tapped her on the arm. ‘I saw you on the telly wiv a talking pig, Auntie Cora. It was funny! You look pretty, Auntie Cora,’ she said shyly, and Cora let go of the boys and held out her arms to the little girl.

  ‘Thank you, angel. Not as pretty as you though – what a lovely dress! Are you a Christmas fairy?’

  ‘Yes! And now you’re here we can open all our other pressies soon – hooray!’

  Ava giggled and wiggled and Cora kissed her red mane and let her go. All three ran off down the hall, Ava waving her wand, the net skirts of the glittery blue dress she was wearing bouncing. Her little brother, stocky and blond like his dad, toddled after her, tiny jeans slipping down over his nappy, closely followed by Elliot, dark curls bobbing as he followed his friends into their playroom.

  ‘We’re in the kitchen!’ Rosie’s distant voice sang out.

  ‘Be there in a mo – just going to unload the presents.’

  Cora wheeled her case into the sitting room and stopped, awed. Rosie and Alistair had been doing up their six-bedroom Regency house, just a few streets away from Cora’s flat, for the past three years – a slow process, which had gathered pace in recent months as Rosie’s florist shop and Alistair’s furniture design business had finally started to make real money. The large sitting room at the front of the house had been the most recently transformed, with almond white walls, dark red sofas scattered with cream and taupe cushions and a shiny walnut floor but, while Cora had seen it before, it hadn’t looked quite this stunning. An eight-foot Norway Spruce wafted a soft fragrance across the room, its branches heavy with red, beaded baubles and sparkling, glass butterflies. Holly branches, artfully entwined with ivy and tiny, maroon and white fairy lights, trailed over the fireplace. On the table in the corner, candles flickered on a bed of snowy pine branches. Bowls of nuts and oranges sat on various shelves, surrounded by delicately scented tea lights. The whole room glowed, and Cora thought she had never seen anything more cosy and welcoming.

  ‘Rosie, you’ve surpassed yourself!’ she yelled.

  ‘Thank yoooou!’ Rosie’s voice echoed from the kitchen.

  Cora unzipped her case to tip out her gifts and added them to the tottering pile already under the tree. Then she returned the case to the hall and followed her nose, throwing her jacket onto the groaning coat rack as she passed. She stopped again as she reached the kitchen door. The vast steamy room at the back of the house was filled with an aroma so rich and festive it could have been no other time of year. The old pine worktops were crammed with food – fragrant mince pies fresh from the oven sat on a cooling rack next to an enormous fruity Christmas pudding, while bottles of red and white wine and port jostled for position with an entire fresh salmon, a pot of cranberry sauce, and a bowl of creamy brandy butter. On the wooden table in the centre of the room, a colossal, and as yet uncooked turkey, oozing stuffing, sat nakedly beside a pile of shortbread and a big white Christmas cake with a wonky Santa sledging across its snowy icing.

  ‘Oh – my – goodness!’ Cora suddenly felt ravenous. ‘I hope we are all going to forget being sensible for the next few days – this is some spread, Rosie.’

  She picked up a slice of shortbread and took a bite, then licked the sugary crumbs from her fingers. Rosie, who was unpacking Cora’s offerings, oohed and aahed as she added them to the feast.

  ‘Ooooh! I adore these cupcakes! We might have to demolish these right now …’

  Nicole, corkscrew in hand, peered over her shoulder.

  ‘Yum! Pass me those glasses, Cora?’

  Cora picked five champagne flutes from the stack at the end of the table, and Nicole filled them. The boys appeared just as they were clinking, and they all stood in a circle and smiled at each other.

  ‘Well – Happy Christmas, everyone!’ Rosie, cheeks pink and eyes bright, took a guilty sip and patted the little bump under her green velvet dress. The others glugged happily, Alistair slightly less dusty than earlier in a clean Aran sweater, Nicole slinky as usual in a long, black skirt and crocheted tunic, Will casual, blue shirt untucked over jeans, his arm around his wife’s waist.

  ‘Happy Christmas!’ they chorused, and Cora felt tears prick her eyes as she looked at her friends, the two couples, so happy and secure. She turned away quickly, on the pretext of refilling the glasses. It would be a happy Christmas, it really would. And maybe next year, she’d have a partner to share it with too. Preferably one who wasn’t wanted for murder.

  Later, the girls lolled on the sofas in the candlelit sitting room, full and contented. Will and Alistair were next door in the playroom, arguing over the table football with bottles of beer. The kids, exhausted and happy, had been put to bed, the three of them cuddling up together in Ava’s room – ‘the only five-year-old I know who has a double bed!’ Cora had exclaimed, as she’d kissed their weary little faces goodnight with a teeny sense of relief. They were definitely all lovely children, but she’d rather had enough for one day.

  Now Rosie sprawled on one sofa, eyes closed, looking worn out but happy. Nicole and Cora sat at opposite ends of the other, Nicole sipping red wine, Cora still on champagne.

  ‘I still can’t believe you turned down Benjamin Boland.’ Nicole carefully put her glass down on the wooden floor, stretched luxuriously and lay back on her cushions. ‘You could be off spending Christmas in some glamorous hideaway with him if you’d played your cards right. Incurable diarrhoea!’ She poked Cora with her long toes.

  Cora grimaced. ‘Don’t remind me! I’d rather be here with you guys for Christmas though, honestly! But, yeah, ugh … I really did blow it, didn’t I? I’m hopeless.’ She shook her head at the memory.

  ‘You are. You’re a total numpty.’

  ‘Yes, I’m a numpty. I’m a numpty from Numpty Land. In fact, if there was a Queen of the Numpties, I’d be it.’

  Nicole snorted, and Cora started to giggle. They were both a bit drunk. Rosie, who wasn’t, joined in with the sniggering anyway.

  ‘You are funny, C
ora. You’re bound to bump into him again, though – I mean, you know where he hangs out now, don’t you? And you’re always up and down to London for work, aren’t you, so you might be able to salvage it.’

  Cora sighed. ‘Maybe. I doubt he’ll come near me again though. And I’m going to be so busy, especially until Jeanette’s killer is found.’ She covered her face with a cushion and groaned.

  ‘You’re a disaster. And don’t you get lip gloss on my cream cushion, Queen of the Numpties!’

  ‘Sorry.’ Cora put the cushion down again, and they lapsed into a companionable silence, which was suddenly ruined by a triumphant roar from the playroom next door, followed by a ‘Na na na-na-na!’ in Alistair’s deep voice. Rosie sat up and banged on the wall and the noise subsided.

  ‘Those boys! Big kids – they’ll wake the children!’

  She collapsed again. ‘I’m exhausted. Shall we go to bed? It’s nearly midnight, look. And we have another day of drinking and debauchery tomorrow.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  Cora and Nicole heaved themselves off the sofa and all three of them waved goodnight to the boys from the door of the playroom and tiptoed up the stairs.

  They all stopped outside Ava’s bedroom and peeped in. The children were snuggled together like kittens, Alexander lying sideways, his soft, blond head on Ava’s chest, Elliot’s stout little arm draped across Alexander’s legs. Nicole and Rosie had a brief, whispered debate about whether to rearrange their sleeping offspring, but decided against it. If they woke them now, they’d never get them down again. Back on the landing they all hugged.

  ‘See you on Boxing Day!’

  Cora shut the door of her room, and sat on the edge of the bed as she slowly wiped off her makeup, her heart twisting a little. Today had almost been like a little break from reality – the reality she knew she would have to face again tomorrow, the reality of a murdered boss and a missing ex-boyfriend and weird Twitter messages. She’d surreptitiously checked her phone about fifty times today, but there had been nothing from Justin. A ‘happy Christmas’ would have been nice, she thought wryly. Although an explanation of exactly what the hell he’d been doing when he became a potential suspect in a murder case would have been even better.